


Dangerous Game

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Blood and Gore, little red riding hood inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-05-25
Updated: 2004-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:18:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brad smells like blood</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Game

Brad smells of blood.

Again

Old metal. Like rust. But Mike knows it isn’t rust. He knows its blood. He says “You’ve got blood on you.” And Brad says “Not any more.” And that’s that.

***

When Mike comes home to an empty house with his friend sitting on his leather sofa, he doesn’t need to go near Brad to know he smells of blood. The emcee politely turns his back whilst Brad removes Anna’s dismembered body from the house in trash-can liners that have anti-suffocation holes in. There is a trail of blood down the stairs to the door and then down the path to the trash-can. It’s entrancing. Little dots of crimson, drying on the rug and turning brown. Brad offers to buy a new carpet and says that all Mike has to do is wait until it rains. Mike won’t miss Anna.

“She was a controlling bitch anyways” Mike doesn’t say ‘Anna’s dead’ when explaining his wife’s absence, he simply says ‘Anna’s gone’ and nobody asks anything else.

Everyone shrugs and Joe says “Sounds like Sam.” Because Sam left too. Everyone thinks Anna took off the way Sam did. Whilst they discuss it Mike watches Brad sitting in the corner licking his fingers and remembering the taste of her blood.

***

The entire time Brad smells like blood, Mike can’t speak. He finds his words trapped in his throat. Choke. It wouldn’t be so bad, he supposes, if it was Chester. But Brad’s his best friend and those hungry eyes make him look like someone Mike would avoid in a dark alley.

He’s walking home from NRG, yes, walking, because he can. He’s walking home. Worn trainers beating rhythmically on wet paving slabs, a hand clamping down on his shoulder and Mike knows...just knows for certain what’s going to happen.

When he’s dragged into an alley and slammed against the cold damp wall he breathes in deep and smells old metal. He struggles against the tight hold that is pinning his arms above his head, but not for long. When a pair of lips come crashing down to his, he’s so busy kissing back furiously and pushing his hips forward and upwards that he doesn’t notice his head hit the wall. He doesn’t notice the slight pain from the cut on his scalp.

All he notices is that smell. And oh fuck if he isn’t loving this right now. With his eyes screwed shut and his head thrown back and he’s whispering god, Brad. Brad presses flush against him, drinking in Mike’s satisfied gasp. He leans in for another fierce kiss, nipping at Mike’s lips and threading a hand through his hair. He moves from Mike’s mouth to bite down hard on the emcee’s neck. Mike thinks he did it only to draw blood, but Brad’s rocking his hips again so Mike can’t think much of anything.

Brad draws back, pulling away and Mike groans because, really, there’s nothing he can think of that’s as selfish as Brad depriving him of all contact.

Brad smirks. He extends a long finger, pointing to the smudged blood around Mike’s neck and on his shoulder. He murmurs, “You’ve got blood on you.”

Mike blinks and Brad is gone.

***

The next time Mike gets close enough to Brad to see if he still smells of blood, Chester has disappeared. Dave said “He went after Sam.” But Joe argued that Chester was far too proud to do that. Brad just said “Maybe he like, needs some space.”

As Mike presses his finger against Chester’s doorbell he doesn’t give two shits how much space the fucker wants. There’s no answer and there’s no lights on. Mike’s thinking, maybe I should go back, but then he turns the handle and walks in.

“Chester? Hey, man, you here?”

There’s not a sound through the entire house. Mike imagines Brad sitting on the pale blue sofa with his feet propped up on the polished coffee table, he’s grinning that I’m-so-high-and-fucking-mighty grin that he has. He shouts up the stairs. “Chester, dude where are you?”

Climbing the stairs and passing the plaques. Mike trails his hand along the painted banister, running is nails along the white wood. Chester’s bedroom door is open. Mike thinks, for a second, that he can smell blood.

All he can smell is vomit once he walks into Chester’s room. He’s thrown up on the carpet at his feet and is staring at it to avoid looking around.

He could smell blood. Can. Because the walls are painted in it.

There’s words on the wall. Mike can’t make them out because they are smeared by crimson hand prints. The carpet is soaked and warm. Chester’s body is tied, spread eagle and face down, to the bed and Mike didn’t know anybody had that much blood in them. Had. Hasn’t any more.

There are cuts on Chester’s body. Deep. Angry. Red. It looks like his tattoos have been traced with a Stanley knife. Sam’s black angel wings are stapled, lopsidedly, to his back and there’s a halo of razor wire wedged awkwardly onto his head, his once-blonde hair now matted with old blood.

It smells like metal and blood and vomit and sex and death in Chester’s room and Mike backs up.

“Hello, Mike.” A soft voice purrs in his ear.

Mike stutters “My mom always t-told me never t-to talk t-to st-strangers.”

Brad grabs his shoulders and spins him round and oh that glint his back in his eyes. “I’m your friend.”

“The Brad I know wouldn’t do this.” Mike wasn’t scared when Anna died. He didn’t love Anna. He thought he didn’t love Chester.

He was oh so wrong about that one.

“You shouldn’t have told me you liked him, Mikey. None of this would have happened if you had just. Shut. Up.” Brad is talking small steps forwards and backing Mike across the room. Passed the bed. He swings a roll of duct tape around his finger. “Ssh.” Says Brad when Mike opens his mouth to speak. He slaps a piece of duct tape over the emcee’s lips. Mike mumbles from beneath his silvery gag.

He wants to say “Don’t hurt me” but Brad isn’t listening anyway. He pulls a knife out of his pocket and Mike can see the look of absolute terror in his reflection in the shiny blade.

It’s cold and it’s against his throat. Brad spins him around, ripping the belt from his pants with one hand. Mike whimpers when they pool around his ankles. Followed by his boxers. And he’s crying silently, fearing what’ll happen if he makes a noise.

He can’t remember Brad ever moving to remove his pants. All he knows is that when Brad enters him forcefully from behind is that it burns. He wants to tell Brad this but the cold metal of the knife stops him from whipping round and just punching the son of a bitch in the face.

Mike can’t smell the blood any more; he can taste it as he bites down on his tongue.

He blinks back salty tears as Brad shifts his hips and thrusts harder and deeper. Mike whimpers, crying out harshly as Brad drags the knife across his throat gently, tracing a collar of beaded blood around his neck.

“I was serious, about being quiet.” Brad pants into his ear. It’s Brad bruising hold on his hip that is keeping him from simply falling to his knees and curling up in a ball. It is Brad’s knife at his pulse that is keeping him silent. But when Brad pushes harder into Mike’s body and they both jerk forward a little, it’s impossible to keep in the scream that is torn from his throat by the knife piercing his tan skin deeper. Brad’s shuddering against Mike’s back and Mike’s sobbing openly now, into the duct tape, from the pain in his back and his legs and his throat and his head is pounding and he feels like he is definitely going to throw up again in the near future.

Brad lets out a low moan but the emcee can’t hear it because Brad just dragged the blade back across his throat forcefully and all Mike can smell is blood.


End file.
